


The Bard

by Thegayfren



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22374889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegayfren/pseuds/Thegayfren
Summary: A lone hunter and his group celebrates a successful hunt, but as it begins the hunter finds a bard mourning into his drink about a lost love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 45





	The Bard

**Author's Note:**

> So, I changed some facts from the show. Yennefer dies from the Djinn stunt, K? Or at least MC thinks so. Thats really it. Also MC like lives under a rock and has no clue who the heck is Jaskier or his Witcher is. 
> 
> I also wrote this for a graded assignment at school. I regret nothing about submitting this to my teacher.

Our grouped walked in the woods on a cold morning. The frost still lay on the flowers. The end of the hunt was in full celebration already. We finished killing the beast and had just made it down the mountain. The small village still slept and so did the sun. I was proud of our job. My fellow hunters joined in with cheer as I spoke of the coin we would receive for this. The thought of sleeping in a warm inn and having a bath brought a large rare smile to my face. It wasn’t every day you helped kill the beast that had destroyed over three towns in small but well-known village.

I glanced over to Moshink, my longest friend and companion. He was born in Nilfgaard, the gemstone of the South. Unfortunately, that changed once you headed north to Cintra. I on the other hand have no land to my name or power. Only the paper that had been left with me as a child. He was meant to be a lord, but he instead found joy in monster hunting with me. I was abandoned at the door steps of a mage. His name was Ryszard Black. He was one of the few mages that was significantly aged but still kind in heart.

That is the thing about mages. They live so long, have so much power, and yet they always almost crave more. Ryszard helped show me that not all became crazed and insane. He told me that many crumble with the thought of how much power they now possess. He told me a story of a mage he had once met. It had recently taken place when he originally told the story. The mage was grief stricken by the fact that the Council took away her choice to have a child for her to have her power and beauty. She grew desperate to find an infertility cure, going so far as to try and kill the rarest sort of dragon to do so. None worked and she went to the most dangerous cure next. She attempted to have a djinn possess her body and, in the process, lost her life. Ryszard told me as a child there was a moral. He told me to never let my want for anything over-power my want to live. I have held onto that. He was truly the greatest father.

Moshink rips me out of my monologue with a shrill cry of, “Ethdrelle! Hello? Is Ethdrelle Yaegerborne’s spirit still in your poor ugly body?” He received a glare from me as I acknowledged his taunts and left the impression he would soon regret it.

“Which one of us is wanted in three kingdoms for your nightly activities?”

That seemed to shut the man up. It was slightly uncalled for. I knew Moshink had changed from the young lord who had a knack for killing nasties, but it was still sometimes fun to bring up his past indiscretions. I looked over and announced to the crew that we had made it to the tavern finally. The sun had risen and a few patrons already resided. A lute’s tune drifted through the wooden door’s cracks. The man we were to meet up and show we had killed the horrible beast also resided in the dingy tavern.

Carfella made her way to the stables dropping off her horse and the body of the creature. “It may be a small town, but it would be rude,” she said. That woman honestly terrified the entire crew. She was the only female and probably the most dangerous of us all. Ella had the most kills under her belt. She was our leader, the one that called the shots.

As we entered the lute playing that had taken a sad tune, stopped. We sat down and one by one went to get ale. Hunting took a lot out of humans, and we always had drinks to get us through it. When I headed up there, the lute player was sat there embracing his ale. I felt his sadness and pain but didn’t pester. Many of those that came through these places held deep pains. I was none the better.

Unprovoked, the man began to speak quietly, but loud enough to be heard. “What is it with monster hunters. You come walking in like you own the place, and then you leave blaming everyone for everything. Instead of actually admitting that maybe you are the one who did the wrong, and not the poor soul who has somehow fallen madly in love with you.”

“Are you okay?” I inquired. “I believe you have had a little too much; I am not the one you speak of.”

“Of course, you are! All hunters are the same! You refuse to accept help and when you do it’s because of the sexy witch lady who has you under her godforsaken spell.” He slumped down crying.

I was taken back. This poor lad was clearly not okay. Someone somewhere had done something horrible to him. Here I was getting that pain targeted at me. I could have no anger towards him; he seemed so upset. I did not know the young bard in the first place, but something fell upon me that said it was wrong for him to be upset. Clearing my throat, I spoke again, “What is your name?”

He sniffed out a mumbled, “Jaskier.”

“That’s a nice name. Is it a nickname?”

He sat up and spoke less fervently. It seemed as though any energy given to him by the sweet ale was gone as quick as it came. Jaskier seemed truly heartbroken. “My actual name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, but that is just such a mouthful. So about 10 years ago I began to call myself Jaskier. I was a great bard once, about two years ago. I even played for Queen Calanthe of Cintra. It was a fabulous day.” He began to recall one of the times he’d played in a court. Jaskier spoke with the wistfulness of a man aged with old. I leaned in listening intently.

He spoke of traveling with a Witcher, and how he had hopes of clearing his name. It seemed familiar, but I was unsure. I knew what Witchers were. They were as old as the spheres themselves. Creatures mutated with strong magic that possessed inhuman abilities because so. Supposedly when fighting the eyes changed to solid black making them look quite demonic. Thus, befitting for many to call them demons. 

Jaskier also shared how he had formed a deep close relationship with the Witcher. “Two years ago, we were in a town. A supposed gold dragon lurked and had destroyed a small village house or two in the town. My Witcher had originally said no. I was saddened because what a wonderful ballad I could write from that! We had almost finished our drinks when in came a witch. I hated her! We had met her before, and I had a not so wonderful experience. My Witcher immediately changed his mind. He almost died on that bloody hunt because of her! Then he yelled for me to get out of his life. And so, here I sit, getting drunk and missing my Witcher.”

I didn’t point out how he spoke the name of the Witcher, using such personal language towards him. It was looked down in society for anyone to even remotely care for a Witcher, let alone love one. I could tell it was love. Jaskier spoke in only the way a brokenhearted fool can. I heard Witcher’s could feel nothing, but it sounds like Jaskier could make one.

I finally realized that my drink had been sat down a few minutes ago. I picked it up, said goodbye to the poor man, and went to sit with my merry group and drink till we forgot. Yet, somehow, I knew I would not ever forget that young bard.


End file.
